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The very sweetest of springs

My favorite place in North Florida is a special spring in the Ocala National Forest.

Yes, I consider anything north of the overpopulated area that is Orlando to be part of my unspoiled Southern — some say ‘cracker’ — roots.

This is absolutely the best wildlife sanctuary that I’ve been able to find during my sixty years in Florida. No campers. No homes. No motor cars. Not a single luxury. It’s primitive as can be.

This unspoiled gateway into the wilderness always makes me feel like I’ve stepped back a century or more. The spring has many visitors, most from the forest and a handful from the city. Naturally, I make it a point to get to know the forest visitors very well.

I commence each visit by having to evict the gator from the mouth of the spring so I can swim and bask in the water without having to always look over my shoulder to see where he might be. He is beginning to get bigger than me and as much as I respect that I am in this six-and-a-half-foot dominator’s domain, common sense tells me not to turn my back anymore.

This secluded spring is ringed with palm trees and a single large live oak stretching across the mouth of the turquoise pool like an old guardian soldier. The petite oasis shrinks a little every year. I once walked across its width in waste deep water. Now it is barely knee deep. There used to be large schools of juvenile mullet that would swirl in circles around the gin-clear waters. Today only a few blue gill and juvenile bass still reside there.

Like clockwork, a Red-shouldered hawk shows up to police his territory. Knowing this raptor really is looking for a treat, I often roll up a piece of lunch meat and toss it into the air. He swoops down and snatches the processed meat with the flair of a gifted outfielder catching a fly ball. When I barbecue in the evening, I keep an eye on him, because he can be a bit of a thief. His predatory rap sheet includes taking hot dogs, chicken wings even a small steak — when he is able — from the grill.

As nightfall approaches, I retreat to the comfort of the cabin built in 1935 by the Civilian Conservation Corps. Only about 50 people each year have the privilege of knowing such seclusion and tranquility. The national forest property managers award opportunities to stay at the pricey cabin through an annual lottery.

As daylight fades, the spacious porch is a nice place to relax and watch the deer. From this vantage point, there are silhouettes of Flying squirrels gliding between the oaks beneath the starlit sky. I clearly hear the coyotes yip and howl in the distance and the gators bellow from the stream. I know I’m in a truly wild place as the owls squawk and other nocturnal hunters begin their ritualistic prowl.

Nighttime hikes behind the cabin — when the moon are bright and I can see the path clearly — have been a favorite pastime, at least until an agitated or defensive Florida Panther recently announced his profound displeasure at my presence.

For those folks who claim to have seen their lives flash before their very eyes, please allow me to testify on your behalf, especially after the fresh prints in the sand confirmed my suspicions the next morning. Although I didn’t actually see this one, nor have I ever seen a panther in the wild, we were no more than 30 yards away from one another — him from a meal, me from never being able to tell this story.

I’m convinced they could thrive near this particular spring.

Each morning, with the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from my mug, I walk the half-mile road from the cabin to the highway in search of animal prints in the sand. Like an animal highway, everything traveling north and south has to cross the road. Sometimes I find as many as 10 different kinds of animal tracks — foxes, turkeys, coyotes, sand hill cranes, bear, deer among them — populating these dense woods.

This quiet jewel of the forest — Sweetwater Spring — provides evidence of Indian mounds and a very purposely buried dugout canoe. It suggests that long before modern-day explorers like me ever thought about visiting, someone else – perhaps really not all that different from me — also found this comforting piece of God’s creation to be a very special spring.

My name is Steve Nelson. I am the Art and Graphics Editor at the Times-Union, but also an avid outdoorsman with a passion for going to wild places. I am lucky to live a life so close to nature and hope you enjoy the personal journeys I share here. Send me an email at steve.nelson@jacksonville.com.